


Oasis of Green

by Purplesauris



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Based off of a dream a friend had, Descriptions of gore, Hurt/Comfort, King Boba Fett, M/M, Major injuries, Never - Freeform, No beta we die like uh, Post s2 spoilers, The fic hops between Boba AND Din, Whump, but ima tag it anyway, have i written this much boba ever?, it's time for PROPOSALS, kind of?, mand'alor din djarin, no, not me, not really - Freeform, pov switching, they are the oracle I am merely the prophet interpreting the signs, well we die like i do whenever i go back and find mistakes weeks later, will i take criticism?, yeah im here to be a slut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29366391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purplesauris/pseuds/Purplesauris
Summary: He searches the coordinates, blinking rapidly to clear his vision, and hits one that looks familiar- somewhere that instinctively he knows will be safe.In which Din searches for the comfort and safety he's missing.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Boba Fett
Comments: 27
Kudos: 356





	Oasis of Green

**Author's Note:**

> Hi yall! Yes, this is absolutely my first time writing Boba in depth, but he's pretty fun, actually!! If you enjoyed, lemme know, either here of my my tumblr, Purplesauris!

There is agony in his blood, in his bones. 

The world around him slides in and out of focus, going razor sharp and then wool soft, fuzzy and faded around the edges. Each breath is like ice in his lungs, pulling and scraping through his throat, scratching against the bruised parts of him. The bounty had many, many reinforcements. A whole platoon, basically- Din could only do so much, even with the Darksaber on his hip and a blaster in hand. He’d managed to get his mark, always, always did, and he sat, frozen in carbonite on Din’s ship as he hauled himself one handed up into the cockpit. 

There was something wrong with his shoulder- he didn’t know if it was the exhaustion or the sharp, dragging pain whenever he tried to move his left shoulder, but his fingers tingle painfully with any movement and he isn’t going to test it. He can feel blood sticking the layers of his clothes to him, seeping down his side and under the seal of his helmet, and he’s woozy with it as he shakily gets the engines going. He can’t quite get his eyes or hands to work well enough to handle the ship himself, and he reaches for the autopilot, pain searing through him at the simple movement. 

He searches the coordinates, blinking rapidly to clear his vision, and hits one that looks familiar- somewhere that instinctively he knows will be safe. The ship whines to life, and Din’s grip is death tight on the one yolk he can use- thank whatever is watching over him, because the ship has one handed capabilities. Perks of a bounty hunter’s ship, he supposes. His ascent out of the atmosphere and into open space is sloppy, half assed and just enough to keep his ship from ripping into pieces, but it does the job, and once Din is able to he flips over to autopilot, letting the ship jerk into hyperspace.

He tries to take stock of his injuries as best he can, but his eyes won’t focus anymore and each breath is like fighting to break the surface of the water. He floats, body screaming, and succumbs to the pull of unconsciousness. 

His pain is a living thing, digging into his shoulder, his chest, his ribs, searing through his lungs and eating away at his heart. He fights with every breath to open his eyes, to keep the beating of his heart easy and steady, but any jostle of the ship in hyperspace jars him again and a fresh wave of pain sweeps him under. He fades in and out over and over, until the ship beeps in alarm, breaking through the atmosphere of whatever planet he’s piloted to. Din wakes up enough to sloppily land himself among the sandy dunes of a desert planet and stagger down to the ramp before his vision blanks out again.

He falls hard and fast, dropping away completely, and the only thing he remembers is a sea of sand and an oasis of green.

\--

He isn’t expecting to see Din for another month at the least. After his _ad’ikas_ capture and subsequent rescue and relinquishing, Din had taken to the jobs Boba could convince him to take like a fish took to water. With a co-dependence that would kill him eventually when he stopped and let himself settle. He knew that he would be back- Din seemed to gravitate to him in the same way that Boba longed to call out to him, to sit in silence, helmets heavy and breathing slow. To press themselves back to back in a fight, whistling birds dancing around them and Boba’s blood singing with adrenaline. 

It hadn’t been something that they discussed when Din walked onto the _Slave_ after capturing Gideon, saber heavy on his hip and shoulders slumped in hollow defeat. He hadn’t said anything when Din had flinched when Boba had reached to thumb at the dusty mark on Din’s helmet, the faint outline of a fist. He had only tilted his head, observing the quiet, resigned way that Din bowed his head and waited to be shamed. 

“There’s a room in the hull of the ship.” Is all he had said, all he had offered. And when he found himself dropping off an angry Bo-Katan and resolute Dune, he hadn’t told Din to leave. 

Din hadn’t left his side for long since. 

Something in Boba liked that, in having Din close to him. Fennec was a partner, someone he found he could trust, could rely on to get the job done. Din was- different. A remnant of a culture his father had hardly ever spoken of, a reminder in the deadly efficient way that he fought what Boba lost when his father had died. What he gained when Din stayed, helped him take over the Hutt dynasty and stood resolutely near the entrance, ever vigilant as Boba took his place on the throne. Din had looked at him then, nodded in understanding, and Boba had felt the acknowledgement so deeply in his core that it still rocked him to this day. 

So he knew that Din would be back, as surely as he knew what was happening in a small desert town halfway across Tatooine. When the _Crest_ landed roughly in the sand, sending waves of it up into the air, Boba knew something was wrong- he had hardly watched on the camera for a moment before bounding up the steps as the roar of the engines grew louder and louder. The ramp was down by the time Boba made it outside, and Boba is halfway up, heart pounding against the durasteel of his armor as Din staggers out. 

Boba has never seen his beskar so covered in blood. Oddly, it's the first thing Boba can think of when he sees Din, left arm tucked close to his stomach and whole body slumping to one side. He feels his lips form words, hears himself talking, but Din can't respond, knees giving out and hand shooting forward as Boba's arms come up to catch him around the abdomen. A sharp, agonized noise rattles from Din's throat as Boba hoists him up in his arms, the stench of blood and blaster bolts strong even through the filter of his helmet. He clicks over to Fennec's comm without a thought, voice strangled in his throat and whole body weak. 

"Clear them out." The command is rough, sharp, but Boba hears Fennec begin yelling immediately, and relief floods him once again at having chanced upon someone he can actually rely on. It only takes a few moments for any lingering visitors to be ushered out of the entrance, and Boba sweeps down the stairs, Din held close to his chest as the unconscious man's head lolls, clinking gently against his chestpiece. 

" _Shit,_ " Fennec says upon sight of him, standing abruptly a bit straighter. 

"Bacta." Boba grinds out, arms straining with the weight of Din and all his armor. He can't stop, can't think past the strangely detached panic rushing every one of his movements. He brings Din to his room, mainly because of its privacy, but also because Boba can't bear the thought of him being further away than he needs to be. He doesn't care about the sheets when he lays Din out, working at the clasps of his armor with brutal efficiency. 

There is something both intimate and betraying about working Din's armor off, peeling it away from his body and watching as more and more blood is revealed. Boba doesn't know how Din managed to make it back here, let alone land the ship and stagger out onto the ramp before finally succumbing. He's working at wrenching Din's jetpack and back plate off with one hand when his comm crackles, Fennec's voice low and only slightly breathless.

"Fett- there's no bacta. The stores are completely empty."

"It's a fucking _crime_ syndicate, how is there not-"

"I can get some, but it'll take days." Fennec interrupts, voice quirking, and Boba heaves a deep breath, trying to clear his muddied thoughts. 

"Fine. Bring water, bandages, whatever we _do_ have."

The door to Boba's room pings softly a few minutes later, and while Boba eases Din back onto the bed, listening to the pained groan that earns him, the door slides open with the override of the lock. Fennec comes in, juggling a basket of what looks like all of their possible medical supplies, two huge jugs of water pinned under her arms. Boba takes the jugs, since there's blood on his hands and he doesn't want to ruin the linen _yet._ When Fennec's eyes linger on Din's unarmored form Boba finds himself shifting, obscuring her view, her dark eyes flicking up to his. "He needs more than we can give."

"He isn't leaving." Boba snaps, Fennec setting the basket on the bed and shaking her head. 

"I'll get bacta, see if I can find a nurse droid." 

"Do what you have to." 

Fennec pauses, looking like she wants to say something, and then seems to think better of it. She gives him another curious, pitying look before leaving with the intent to get something to help Din. Boba in the meantime, locks the door again and washes his gloves off in the water before yanking them off and reaching up to remove his helmet. He isn’t going to be able to work properly with it in the way, even with its advanced optics, and he leaves it on the dresser as he begins stripping Din’s bloody clothes from him. He manages with the pants fine, keeping his eyes carefully averted, but the instant he lifts Din’s arm off his stomach to remove his shirt a hand comes up, clamping down so tight around his wrist that Boba feels the bones grind. 

Din’s head moves, trying to lift, and Boba reaches to brace his head, allowing Din to look at him. Boba can see his chest rise, taking in a breath to speak, but all that comes out is a pained whimper and Boba shakes his head, shushing him quietly and gently lowering his head back down. “I had to remove it. Stay still.”

Din’s head turns again, searching, and Boba gestures toward Din’s armor, allowing him to look before urging him back down fully onto his back. Din finally drops his wrist, hand going limp, and Boba pulls out a knife, splitting the shirt straight up the front in lieu of trying to wiggle it off. It’s so saturated with blood anyway that it would have been hard to save, and Boba hisses at the sight of Din’s ruined torso. Bruises bloom across his side, so purple they’re nearly black, and when Boba presses in, searching, Din cries out, flinching away. 

The sound breaks something in Boba, but he presses harder, feeling along the curvature of Din’s ribs and gritting his teeth when Din dips back into unconsciousness. Boba finds two ribs broken in his rough examination, and his eyes track further up Din’s chest, toward where he can very plainly see that Din’s collarbone has snapped. It hasn’t broken skin, but each ragged breath makes the skin shift, and Boba has only a cursory knowledge of how to set a collar bone. 

He isn’t setting anything yet, though, not until he wipes away the blood staining Din’s skin, dabs at the cuts that managed to get into the small gaps of his armor. He’s careful about how much water he uses- he wants Din to be able to drink when he comes to, and he can’t do that if Boba douses him. So he uses it sparingly, just enough to get the blood to come away from his skin, to wipe him down until Boba can see the battered, bruised expanse of him in his entirety. 

Din is still unconscious, blissfully unaware of what is about to happen as Boba grabs the bandages and carefully lifts him up. He slips behind Din’s limp form, bracing him against his chestplate, and begins to wrap. It's awkward, working with just himself, but he's bound ribs in worse conditions, and Din isn’t in any condition to fight against him. He’s careful not to wrap too tight- he needs the ribs to stay mostly in place, but Din still has to be able to breathe, and Boba watches his chest for each and every breath. His collarbone is another story: he doesn’t know if anything has been damaged, and without a nurse droid to scan or advise him Boba makes due.

He dips out momentarily to find something long and flat, coming back to the room with held breath. Din hasn’t moved from his prone position on the bed and Boba is grateful; whatever happened to him is over now, and he can only hope that Din was at least successful in getting his quarry. Because if not… There are many, many things that Boba will do to the target before the night is over. 

Boba’s second worst part of the night starts- he gathers the bandages and his length of wood, setting a cloth between Din’s collarbone and the wood before abruptly pressing down in one movement. Din’s screams echo in his ears far after they’ve cut off, and Boba grits his teeth, wrapping around Din’s shoulder and over his chest to secure the makeshift splint in place. Din’s chest rises and falls with broken, grating breaths, and Boba uses a length of bandage to tie it around Din’s wrist and across his chest, pinning his left arm up onto his stomach to prevent him from moving his shoulder. He’ll fashion a more permanent sling when he can see properly, when he can blink the wetness from his eyes and keep the tears from falling onto Din’s bandages. 

With Din’s most pressing injuries taken care of and his blood cleaned as best Boba can manage, he realizes he only has one thing left to do- check underneath Din’s helmet. The thought is horrifying, demeaning, and Boba’s skin crawls at the thought of being the one to shatter Din’s Creed further than it already is, but he- he can see blood, has cleaned blood from the undamaged slope of Din’s neck and he knows that it’s seeping from under his helmet. 

Boba gathers all of what he’s going to need near him on the side of the bed, drawing in a deep breath and closing his eyes. He reaches forward, bumping lightly across the front of Din’s visor, following the t-shape down until his hands are around the back. Din’s seal lock is in the same spot, and Boba pops it with a gentle movement. He pauses there, breath held, and only lets it shudder out when Din doesn’t stir. He pulls back to brace his hands on either side of Din’s head, thumbs dipping into the hollow of the cheeks, and bows his head, eyes squeezed firmly shut. _Forgive me_.

He lifts Din’s helmet from his head in one smooth, gentle movement, using one hand to catch Din’s head before it can thump back. His brain shorts at the feeling of Din’s hair, soft and curling in his palm. A bit damp with either blood or sweat, but when Boba pulls his hand back, sniffing, he gets only the soft tang of sweat. No blood on the back of his head, at least. Boba sets Din’s helmet off to the side gently, not wanting it to go far, and then reaches out with both hands. His fingers bump over Din’s chin, scratching faintly against stubble, and Boba is surprised to say he never expected _that_. Boba traces the line of his jaw, following the bit of facial hair he has, and moving up slowly. Din’s breaths are shallow but warm when Boba’s fingers pause over his mouth, tracing his lips for any scabbed blood and finding none. 

He continues his way up, checking to make sure Din’s nose is in the correct position, his cheekbones haven’t been broken in. He brushes over Din’s closed eyelids, feeling the way that Din’s eyes twitch madly underneath them, trapped in a dream or nightmare. He doesn’t find anything wrong until he gets up closer to Din’s hairline, and there he finds a long cut just below his hairline, already scabbed over. Now that Boba can feel where the wound is he grabs for a washcloth, gently dabbing at the cut and wiping the area around it. When he runs his fingers through Din’s hair they tug with the blood dried in his hair, and Boba freezes. He doesn’t want to cause more pain, but Din doesn’t wake up and Boba spends a few minutes trying to work the blood from his hair without being able to see.

The longer he touches Din’s hair the more he begins to admire the texture: it’s curly, though not in the tight, bunched curls that Boba remembers himself having. No, these are softer, easily brushed through, and Boba very suddenly misses his own hair- the care he’d taken, the way it had made him seem like _Boba_ , not Jango, not a clone, but _him._ He realizes that he’s sitting here, playing with Din’s hair, prolonging his time helmetless, and shame so hot it scalds sweeps through him. Boba touches lightly at the cut again, relieved that it hasn’t opened with his cleaning, and fumbles for Din’s helmet. 

\--

Din can’t stand the pain- fingers are digging into his side, rending him, ribs shifting under his touch, and he grabs blindly for whoever has hurt him. Whoever continues to hurt him. Boba’s face comes into view when a hand cradles the back of his head, and his eyes are wide, near imploring as Din realizes with faint shame that he’s been stripped of his beskar. Boba says something, an excuse, but Din is distracted again by the pain, and his neck is too weak to support his head as he looks for his armor. His _armor_. Boba shows him it, disgustingly red but close, and when fingers stab back at his side Din careens back into unconsciousness. 

The next time he wakes he can hardly breathe- each breath rattles in and out of him, made harder by the bandages crushing at his ribs. He breathes as deep as he can, but that only sends pain searing through his shoulder, and Din’s head lolls. The light in the room is all but gone, and Din searches with what strength he does have. His armor is gone from his side and a bolt of panic goes through Din, nearly overriding the pain keeping him bound to the bed. He shifts, neck aching, and stops when he sees Boba, hunched by the only lamp in the room, scrubbing resolutely at the front of Din’s chestplate with deliberate care. Din wants to reach out, to say something, but his mouth won’t work, and he sinks back into sleep. 

He wakes again briefly to a hand brushing through his hair, heart rate spiking in panic and breaths coming fast and rough as he peels his eyes open. Each image before him is blurry at best, but he stares at Boba’s closed eyes, the ugly, resigned pinch to his brow as fingers find the throbbing cut on Din’s forehead. Din stares at him, stares and stares and wills himself to say something, but Boba is spraying something cold that smoothes the pain, and Din is sinking back into sleep before the helmet can even seal back around him. 

The pain isn’t what wakes Din this time. It’s the absence of it, the utter lack of anything other than a faint uncomfortable stickiness. He shifts, turning his head, and finds Boba pacing the length of the room, armor left in a heap with Din’s and black clothes rumpled in a way that suggests Boba has been working. Din chokes on a breath trying to talk, and the other man’s head snaps toward him, watching as Din scrabbles at the back of his helmet with one hand. 

“ _Gev, gev,_ Din, stop-”

“Can’t- breathe-” He chokes out, each word eeking out with harsh gasps. He watches as Boba lunges, grabbing at his wrist and forcing it into the bed as Din’s breaths come faster and faster. “ _Gaa’tayl.”_

_Help_. 

Boba’s hands are shaking as his eyes close and the helmet comes off, Din sucking in whatever greedy breaths he can manage. Boba holds the helmet close to his chest, as if cradling the anonymity that Din has always craved. Din’s heart cracks in his chest at the bitter, angry set of Boba’s lips- not at him, never- but at the way he’s broken Din’s creed, twice now that Din knows. It doesn't hurt to think about as much as he expects. Din reaches out with the one hand that isn’t strapped down to his body, taking his helmet from Boba’s hand and forcing words up from his chest.

“It’s already broken.”

“Not by me.” 

“Boba.” Din says, and that word alone is what breaks the stubborn set of the other man’s shoulders, what causes his shoulders to shake as a weak, aching sob shudders through him. His moment of weakness is that- a moment before Boba reigns himself in, face evening out, but Din is reaching for him the same moment Boba’s hand slips under Din’s head, holding him steady as their foreheads press together.

\--

He wants to marry him.

He wants to say the words and never take them back and hope to whatever god is listening to him that Din says them too. Somehow in Boba’s mind, in the dark, twisting and turning of his reality _after_ the sarlacc, he forgets that Din isn’t invincible. That the saber heavy on Din’s hip is a reminder of his mortality, not a shining beacon of all that Din has become: all that he’s risen above, to be the man that he is now. 

He has survived worse than Boba could ever imagine a normal man surviving, though with every breath that Din draws in he proves him wrong. It’s too much- the soft, pained rasp of Din’s breath, the slow rise and fall of his chest- the stark white of the bandages against his skin. The image of Din outside of beskar is one that Boba has longed to see, to touch, to taste, to feel, but seeing him now, none of that matters. Nothing about him matters, not his feelings, not the blood that he _knows_ is Din’s that won’t scrub away from his nail beds. Not the sharp, stabbing ache in his wild beating heart that throbs with each and every breath that Din continues to pull in. Seeing Din breathe is all that Boba cares for- the longer he breathes, the easier he settles into bed, the better Boba can think.

He'd torn the _Slave_ apart looking for the med kit he knew was on board, and used up his entire supply of bacta just to ease Din's pain for a little bit. Fennec was on her way to get and bring back more- objectively Boba knew this, but he also knew Din better than he sometimes knew himself. The mandalorian would stay down for all of two seconds before insisting on going back to do something else, to return to a hunt or head off to gods know where. Boba just had to figure out how to keep him here long enough to actually recover. 

He's still thinking about it when Din groans behind him, legs shifting under the blanket that Boba had tossed over him once the suns set and the temperature had plummeted. It's probably the only part of him that Din can move without his body screaming in pain, and Boba turns to him, eyes carefully downcast. "Are you in pain?"

Din grunts, trying to use his right arm to shove himself up. Boba is careful, quick as he hoists Din further up to lay among the pillows piled at the head of the bed. There are dark smears of blood staining the sheets, but the last thing Boba cares about is _sheets._ "I'm fine." He mumbles, voice weak with the strain of moving.

Boba doesn't comment on the lie, instead moving to carefully sit at Din's side, close enough that he can brush his hands over the bandages, trying to feel for any spots where blood might have seeped through. The cuts and gashes on Din's exposed sides and arms are almost healed already with the generous helping of bacta that Boba had sprayed him down with. The bandages pressed to his skin are soaked with it as much as Boba could manage, and he has no clue if bacta will really do anything for bone breaks without them having a bacta tank, but he can hope. 

"What happened?" It's probably one of the last questions that Boba wants to ask, but Din huffs, the sound turning into a wheeze as he slumps against the pillows completely. 

"The bounty had friends."

"Are they alive?"

Din somehow forces out a laugh, and Boba jerks when warm fingers slip against his chin, lifting his head. His eyes flick up of their own accord, but he averts them before he even gets to Din's neck. "Do I take prisoners?"

"Lately?" Boba asks, voice teasing but chest constricting with the knowledge that he doesn't have anyone to punish. "How many?"

"Twenty, thirty maybe." This time Boba can't stop his reaction, and it feels as much a betrayal as anything he's ever done, but Din's eyes are hard and glittering and Boba feels like he's plummeting hundreds of feet back into the sarlacc pit. His skin _burns_ with Din staring at him, and Boba keeps his eyes carefully on Din's, refusing to wander until Din says, voice quiet, "My Creed is my own."

"I know." He croaks, throat tightening. Din's eyes narrow slightly with what Boba assumes is a smile, corners crinkling, and he feels too hot, too smothered and yet too laid bare all at once. 

"Look at me, Boba Fett." His full name, his _last_ name shocks through him with such intensity that his eyes close before he can even think to keep them open. Din's hand touches his face again, draws him closer, and Boba fights the urge to grab a handful of Din's dark hair- because it's black, with white peppering his temples- from stress or age Boba doesn't know. His eyes are still dark, so brown they're near black, and Boba loses himself within their depths as Din's thumb sweeps along his cheekbone. 

Having a hand so close to his eyes, his throat has Boba's body tensing on some unspoken, fear driven impulse, but Din's touch is featherlight, achingly gentle over a scar that twists along his cheek and up onto his temple. "I'm looking." 

And he is. Gods, but he is. 

He still doesn't think he should; Din's Creed is what he clings to, Boba knows this as surely as Boba clings to the fiery, burning pit of loss and rage and flames that fuel him. But it isn't his place to decide what Din should ask for- it's only his place to give Din what he asks for, if he's able. And this, Boba is able to give him a thousand times over. 

Din is soft, with doe-like eyes, a scruffy beard and mustache that looks like he should have trimmed a few days ago, hair that stands on end from where Din had been sleeping on it. There are wrinkles at the corners of his eyes from smiling, a dimple that pops on his right cheek when Din grins, teeth flashing. Boba is struck by the urge to reach out and touch him, despite never having craved anyone's touch himself. He reaches up, hiding the shaking of his fingers, and pauses, waiting, until Din nods, closing his eyes when Boba's fingertips bump his cheek. The scratch of stubble is more familiar than it should be under Boba's fingers, and he slides them until they touch right behind Din's ear, palm pressed flat to Din's cheek as he leans heavily into the touch.

He doesn't know how much longer he can sit like this, lingering on some unseen edge, heart fluttering in his chest in a distinctly _scared_ way. A way he's desperately tried not to feel since he was orphaned. Set adrift. 

"I get to choose." Din whispers, soft enough that Boba hardly hears him. 

"Choose me." He blurts out, before he can think better of it. It doesn't make sense, what he's said, but Din's lips quirk in a small, pained smile, and Boba falls silent when those soft, warm eyes open and lock onto him.

"Together." It isn't a question, isn't a request- it's a plea, a call to Boba that he rises to meet. That he _runs_ to meet, lips forming the words in time with the more sinuous melody of Din's Mando'a.

“ _Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde_.”

Somehow Boba doesn't expect it to be different- and it isn't. But somehow nothing is ever going to be the same again, with Din bound to him and someone his equal waiting for him, no matter how far apart they are. He’s never fancied himself a romantic, even now with Din looking at him with that soft, curious look and tilt to his head that Boba _knows_ is because he isn't used to being helmetless. This way, Boba tells himself, this way he can look at Din and not feel like he's intruding on something- Din is _his_ now, just as Boba is Din's. He's somehow lost himself in thought long enough for Din to think he can try to move, and Boba's hand shoots out, palm heavy on Din's chest as he presses the other man back into the bed. 

"Don't even think about it, _Beroya._ "

"Unless you want me to ruin the sheets, I have to use the 'fresher."

"You already ruined the sheets." Boba points out, clenching his jaw to keep from smiling at the way Din's nose wrinkles in distaste. "With me, _Beroya._ "

"I can-" Boba shoots him a look as he stands, moving to swing Din's legs out of bed. Din wheezes with the simple movement and Boba gives him another look, brow raised, causing the other man to glower. It takes another few minutes for Din to be able to support enough of his weight that he can walk, and Boba stays tucked resolutely under Din's right arm the entire way, glad for once, that his height allows Din to lean without straining him. 

It takes a bit of awkward maneuvering and swearing from Din, but they manage, and Boba leaves Din sagging against the dresser while he strips away the bloody sheets and changes them out. No need to risk some kind of infection from the wounds Boba _couldn’t_ slather in bacta. Din settles back into bed without much protest, skin pale and sweat dotting his brow. 

“Thirsty?” Boba stoops to gather up the jug of water he’d saved for Din, holding it steady as Din’s hand braces against it, keeping it close as he drinks. “Alright, alright, don’t drown yourself.”

Din glares at him when he pulls the jug away, but there’s water dripping down his chin from how quickly he drank and Boba reaches to wipe it away without a thought. Din stills at the touch, shocked, but when Boba goes to pull back, lips pressed together Din catches his hand, leaning into his palm and closing his eyes. “Don’t. You’re allowed to.”

“Is that what you want?”

Din laughs, though the action of doing so causes a shudder to go through him, and his face pinches with pain. “I married you, Fett.”

“That doesn’t mean-”

“Just come over here.” He frowns at Din, thinking over what Din could want, and he inches slowly closer, careful of his side and arm. Din allows him this hesitance, this moment to puzzle him out before he holds out a hand, brushing his fingers over Boba’s cheek. “I’ve never seen you hesitate.”

“I don’t.”

“So stop doing it now. If I had a problem with you touching, or you looking, I’d have kicked you out.”

“It’s my room.” Boba points out, chuckling when Din raises a brow.

“ _Our_ room.” He knows that Din is half joking, but something warm and flimsy settles in his stomach and he can feel himself smiling without meaning to. There’s a question in his statement too, of whether or not Boba wants his own space, and he tips forward, bumping their foreheads together as gently as he can manage with Din’s hand goading him on. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“You can stay until you piss me off.” Din barks out a laugh that turns abruptly into a groan, and Boba frowns, ready to chastise him. 

“What if you piss _me_ off?”

“I’m king.”

“So am I.” Din shoots back, though Boba knows he hardly cares to acknowledge that fact in owning the Darksaber. 

“I’m king of _this_ castle.” He fires back, just to watch the way that Din’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Though technically, you are as well, now.”

“Ugh.” Boba can’t help the low, pleased chuckle that comes from him at Din’s obvious distaste. “I don’t want a crown.”

“Trophy husband?” 

Din rolls his eyes.

\--

Boba has to physically restrain Din _twice_ before he agrees to stay in bed. The first time Boba had just sat on his thighs, pinning him into the bed with his weight and waiting until Din tired from the pain in his side and lack of an arm to help shove Boba off. The second time was harder, because by then Fennec had brought droves of bacta, and Boba was near religious in smearing it along Din’s collarbone and rib in the hopes that it would help past healing the bruises. 

The nurse droid that Fennec brings back is a great help as well, and gives Din a once over before Din shoves it away. It reports that the splint and wrapping is sufficient, and that there are no bleeds or tears in Din’s muscles or tendons. All it takes is time and a whole _lot_ of rest. Rest that Din insists is unneeded, that he doesn’t want. The bacta helps with his pain, and that makes Din reckless with his arm and his side. It makes him reckless, and sometimes a little stupid when he really wants to get going, but Boba is nothing if not indulgent, and whatever Din asks for he’s given. 

When Din asks him after a week to let him go outside, Boba straps him into his armor and walks his through the courtyard. When Din tires Boba tucks under his arm like there's nothing he'd rather do, allowing Din to sag his full weight against him and pant through the modulator of his helmet. 

When Din demands that he be allowed to go return his bounty to claim his reward Boba goes with, leaving Fennec to watch over Tatooine while they're on Nevarro dropping off the carbonite encased Rodian. Boba refuses flat out to let Din look at bounty pucks, though, and Din gets one look in warning before Boba is dragging him out of Karga's office, ignoring the swears and protests that trail behind him.

When Din begs Boba to kiss him, Boba only denies him for the first two days. The last thing he wants is to hurt Din, and he knows himself and he knows Din too well to think that either of them will stop if they get going. So when Din demands instead of begging, grabbing Boba's collar with his good arm and yanking him close, he only laughs and finally, _finally_ gives Din what he wants. 

When Din crawls into his lap, regardless of the way his side twinges, Boba holds him by the hips and denies him what they both want. Boba may give Din whatever he wants, but in this he's firm, and no amount of sweet talking or noises or touches will bend Boba to Din's will. He tells Din to wait, to be patient, and kisses the protests from his lips until Din is once again leaning all his weight on Boba, good arm up around his shoulders and fingers idly tracing along the nape of Boba's neck. 

Boba will continue this dance for as long as he needs to, until Din can walk and breathe without wheezing, and until Din can move his left arm and still have strength in his hand to grip. 

\-- 

He is swimming in frustration. He wants to move, to run and fight and stop _laying around._ But each breath is still a knife in his side, even four weeks later, and he's just beginning to work strength back into his left arm despite all of Boba's protesting. The feeling of wood, straight across his collarbone and hindering his movement has become something of a comfort, because sometimes when Din lifts something too heavy he feels like the bone is creaking inside of him, ready to snap at a moments notice, and the only thing keeping that from happening is the slat of wood pressing down into his skin. 

He spends each night under Boba's careful attention, reeking of the mint-sharp smell of bacta as Boba sits on his thighs and smooths his hands over the yellowing on Din's side. Occasionally his fingers will dig in, just to check on his progress, and Din has to hold onto Boba's knee to keep from punching him in some automatic retaliation. But for all his protesting and prowling, Boba takes it all in stride, and Din's chest burns with the thought and sight of his husband- his _husband_ caring for him. 

Din watches him now, the broad slope of his shoulders, the careful way his brows flinch when he's concentrating on feeling the ribs that are nearly healed. Din slips his hand higher on Boba's knee, thumb tracing along the seam on the inside of Boba's thigh, and hopes his face won't betray him for once. Boba's attention doesn't stray, but his legs shift, spreading just so, as if the gesture is more unconscious than conscious. Din isn't sure Boba even knows that he does it. He's not going to point it out.

His eyes remain carefully on Boba's face when he slips his hand a bit higher, bolder, and he can tell the moment that Boba notices him. His body goes still, head twitching in a brief tilt, and his eyes flick up, lingering on his throat before finally glancing up to lock eyes. It's the quickest way that Boba seems to be able to convince himself that he's allowed to look, even after weeks of Din waking up to Boba leaning on one elbow, staring down at him like he's some buried treasure that Boba is still trying to uncover. 

"I told you to be good." 

"I am." Din says, not moving his hand another inch but continuing the slow sweep of his thumb. "Haven't even tried to hit you today."

Boba's eyes narrow, but Din can see the amusement that softens any hard edge, and he flashes what he hopes is a smarmy grin. It seems to have worked because Boba rolls his eyes, shaking his head and scooting a bit further to sit on Din's hips so he can reach his collarbone. Din makes an encouraging sound, tilting his head to the side and raising his brows. Boba snorts, pausing to squeeze more bacta onto his fingers before dipping to smooth it over Din's collarbone. 

Din waits until that concentrated look crosses Boba's face again to move his hand, inching it further up. He feels Boba shudder, just a small quake in his thighs, and Din bites the inside of his lip to keep from grinning. Boba’s fingers are warm and gentle on his collarbone, smoothing over the faint bruises and working the bacta into Din’s skin as best he can without potentially shifting the bone. Din loses himself momentarily in the way that Boba traces along his collarbone and leans to grab at a washcloth he keeps nearby, wiping his fingers off and glancing down at Din with an appraising look. 

He remembers his purpose suddenly with a roar through his veins at the sight of Boba above him, and his fingers dig into Boba’s thighs, thumb rubbing hard over the sensitive skin on the inside of his thigh. He delights in the small, pleased gasp that falls from Boba’s lips, but then Boba’s fingers wrap around his wrist, snatching his hand up while his dark eyes narrow. Din’s fingers twitch, arm straining as he tries to tug away, but Boba’s got him now, and his attention is firmly on Din, like a predator tracking prey. 

“Your ribs are broken.”

“They’re healed.” Din protests, though they _definitely_ aren’t fully healed yet. 

Boba knows better, of course he does, because there’s no one that Boba bothers to pay attention to more than he does Din. It makes Din feel warm, flushed with want and love and everything else he doesn’t really have a name for. 

“You’re being impatient.”

“I’ve been a saint.” He says, frowning with displeasure when Boba shifts his hips back a smidgeon. “We’re _married,_ I think it’s normal to want-”

“Din.” Din’s teeth snap shut with an audible snap at the sound of his name on Boba’s lips, and he stares, entranced, as Boba lifts his hand. His breath catches in his throat, chest aching for an entirely different reason as Boba kisses at the soft inner skin of Din’s wrist, eyes warm and affectionate. Din, despite his protests, feels himself relaxing, sinking back into the sheets and watching as Boba places another kiss, humming quietly. “I’m not going to do anything yet.”

“But-” Boba’s teeth scraping lightly over the tendons of his wrist makes his brain short out, and Din’s vision goes blurry at the hot, aching twist in his stomach. His tongue flicks out to soothe the spot, as if in apology, and a rough, strained noise rattles from Din’s chest. 

“Do not think,” Boba murmurs, “That this isn’t _torture_ for me. To see, to touch, and not be able to do anything. I just happen to have better control.”

Din laughs- really he can’t help himself, and he tilts his head, ignoring the faint tug at his collarbone. “Are you saying I’m being _needy_?”

“Are you not?” Din laughs again, this time more in disbelief than anything else. Boba drops his hand, dipping down to touch their foreheads together, Din humming softly in contentment at having him close. “Wait until you can actually breathe.” 

“I don’t want to.”

Boba’s lips quirk in a smile that’s too attractive for Din to ignore. “Tough shit, Princess.” 

\--

Boba is beginning to enjoy telling Din no. If only to watch the way his brows pinch in puzzled confusion, as if thinking over how best he can convince Boba otherwise. It’s a fun game, to see what Din will come up with for the bigger requests, and just how long Din will stare with wide, imploring eyes until Boba sighs and gives in for the smaller ones. 

Like now.

Din has that look on full display, sitting shirtless on the edge of the bed while Boba straps his armor on. He has to go off planet for a problem with some trade routes, and Din has demanded he come too- much to Boba’s amusement and Din’s frustration. 

“Why can’t _Fennec_ stay?”

“She’s the only one the contact will talk to.”

“But-”

“I need you to stay here, _Beroya_. Please.” His voice softens at the end, and if Din thought he was good at begging, Boba can do so much worse when he puts his mind to it. Din’s pleading expression crumples into one of soft, resigned adoration, and Boba is near breathless at the sight. 

“I want to come on the next one.” He says, as if bargaining.

“We’ll see.”

Din groans at that answer, clearly not pleased, and Boba rolls his eyes as Din flops back. His ribs have healed well with the bacta and time, and the only worry Boba has left is the tenderness in Din’s shoulder. The nurse droid assured them it would work out with therapy to strengthen the muscles around it, but Boba isn’t ready to push it yet. 

“-the _worst_ husband I could have gotten-”

“ _Hey_ .” Boba protests, striding over to frown down at him. Din continues his lament. Boba dips down and grabs a handful of his hair, holding him steady as Boba’s lips press to Din’s, cutting him off mid monologue. Din’s hand comes up to cup the side of Boba’s neck as a soft, pleased noise rumbles from him, and Boba nearly ruins the kiss by smiling at the sound. “I’m the _best_ husband.”

“A good husband would let me come.” Din says, lips twitching in a smile when Boba groans. 

“A good husband would stay here, to protect their home.” 

Din hums, as if thinking that over before his smile grows into a grin. “You’re right.” 

“Come again?”

“You’re right.” Din says again, “You can stay here- _I’ll_ go with Fennec.”

“That isn’t what I meant, you little shit-” Din laughs, bright and open, and drags Boba down into another kiss, silencing the both of them. 

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:  
> Beroya- Bounty hunter  
> Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde- traditional marriage vow, literally "we are one when together, we are one when parted, we will share all, we will raise warriors."  
> Gev- stop  
> Gaa'tyl- help


End file.
